


Rockwelling

by Anythingtoasted



Series: Adventures in the Batcave [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 8x14 coda, Batcave Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Team Free Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-18
Updated: 2013-02-18
Packaged: 2017-11-29 17:55:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/689800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anythingtoasted/pseuds/Anythingtoasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>batcave fluff. dean/cas. 8x14 coda.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rockwelling

**Author's Note:**

> I'm actually embarrassing my _self_ now. this is shameless.

“I didn’t know you _ironed.”_ Sam tells him, eyebrows raised, when he finds Dean in the kitchen with the ironing board, a flannel-heavy pile of clothes stacked next to him messily, and another, folded neatly, on the other side.

Dean shrugs. “Gotta keep up appearances. Maybe if we take better care of the suits people will believe we’re FBI a little more often.”

Sam nods. Can’t argue with that.

Later in the day he comes back from a shower and finds one of the bathrobes on his bed, beside a pile of his other clothes, all neatly pressed. The bathrobe is black, fluffy, smells of washing-powder. It’s monogrammed with someone else’s name, but that doesn’t really bother him; plus, it’s still warm. 

Shrugging – _why not?_ – he slides into it, impressed when it actually fits him, and hangs below the knee. Maybe Men of Letters were all tall, maybe Dean had just struck gold and been lucky to find this one – either way, he can’t really help himself when he pulls up the collar with a hand and breathes it in, the warm, clean scent tugging at him in a way he didn’t really expect. 

He’s never really had his laundry done for him before, let alone ironed. When he was a kid he always had to help his dad and Dean, and when he was at college, and with Amelia, he did it himself (obviously). He’s surprised by how much he likes it; relaxing, that is. He smiles a little when he pads down the hallways in bare feet to join Dean, who will inevitably be in the living room with Cas, the same place Sam has found him for the last few days.

He walks in. Then he stops.

“Dean, for god’s _sake_.”

The two of them, Dean and the angel, turn from where they’re sitting on the couch. They’re in matching bathrobes; all three of them are, actually, though they’re in varying shades; Dean in grey, Castiel in navy blue. Sam makes a noise. “You’re so _embarrassing._ ” He says hopelessly, but Dean grins guilelessly back at him.

“Knew you’d like it.” He says, and then turns back to where he and Cas are playing monopoly.

Sam rolls his eyes – is on the cusp of going back to his room to put on pants and a t-shirt and ignore the fact that Dean’s trying to coerce them all into some kind of strange, Rockwell-style cohesion – but then he sighs, and gives in.

He goes to sit on the couch with them, trying to ignore the prickling _weirdness_ of this whole thing, and leans over to look at the board. “Can I be the dog?”

Castiel turns to look at him, expression utterly deadpan-serious. “Dean is the dog, Sam.” He says, never breaking composure. He picks up one of the metal pieces and presses it into Sam’s perplexed palm. “You can be the iron.”


End file.
